


fragments of a song

by blindbatalex



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Brad Marchand - Freeform, Future Fic, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, also cw for, and i get to play with memory, is like there but only in memory, of the sad kind, where patrice is very old
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 15:21:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14897072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/pseuds/blindbatalex
Summary: Pictures cover his walls, stacked on top of one another, lining up the hallway, spilling onto the stairs. Most days Patrice hates them. The faces leer at him, mock him, cruel and unforgiving. He is in almost all of them too. He is short, has a nose like a parrot’s beak and a smug smile that seems to be permanently etched onto his face. Patrice thinks he likes to hug. He is certainly hugging Patrice a lot, hanging from his side, draped across him, or tangled with Patrice on the ice.





	fragments of a song

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [windmills of your mind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C_NF0wKxBwM) (i like the allison moyet version).

Pictures cover his walls, stacked on top of one another, lining up the hallway, spilling onto the stairs. Most days Patrice hates them. The faces leer at him, mock him, cruel and unforgiving.

He is in almost all of them too. He is short, has a nose like a parrot’s beak and a smug smile that seems to be permanently etched onto his face. Patrice thinks he likes to hug. He is certainly hugging Patrice a lot, hanging from his side, draped across him, or tangled with Patrice on the ice.

_Yeah baby that’s how you do it!_

He is grinning from ear to ear. His arms are raised high above his head, stick in hand, he is skating at Patrice at full speed. They – _he_ – just scored an overtime goal, won them the game, latching onto Patrice’s pass like he could tell where it was going even before the puck left Patrice’s stick.

(At other times it’s the goal that got them the overtime. Sometimes it’s the Stanley Cup final though Patrice knows it wasn’t. Sometimes it’s everything at once.)

Patrice catches him.

Patrice always catches him. Their protective gear makes a dull thud at the impact and Patrice remembers it, the moment, like he remembers his own name.

 _Yeah baby that’s how you do it!_ he murmurs into Patrice’s ear – or maybe shouts it for the world to hear. Around them the massive arena is silent. They are playing away and the fans are too stunned for words. Around them the arena bursts into cheers and noise, the roar of the home crowd deafening.

There is more to it too, there always is. There is the way his stubble, a few days’ worth – is it the playoffs? – scratches against Patrice’s cheek. There is his breath on Patrice’s skin, hot and coming quick, as he buries his face into the crook of Patrice’s neck. Patrice has always marveled at how well it fit there, as if his neck was made for him and only for him to nuzzle.

His cheeks are bright red, blotchy like they always are after exertion – you can almost draw a line where the color stops. 

_I fucking love you you know that?_ he says and something aches in Patrice’s chest. It was before _before_ before and so it hurts, though he doesn’t know what the after was exactly.

He is skating at Patrice at full speed and Patrice catches him. Patrice always catches him. He marvels at how well he fits there in his arms, wonders what would happen if he refused to let him go, and he is cold and his back hurts, and his hand comes back wet when he wipes it against his cheek.

*

“Dad?” comes a voice that is trying (too) hard to be gentle. John. No, not John, _James_ , in his nightwear, standing by the foot of the stairs, frowning.

One of them is his child and the other is the spouse and it doesn’t help that they both insist on calling him dad.

“Just got up to get some water,” Patrice says, facing him head on.

James’ eyes flick from Patrice to the wall and then back again. He sighs, a little exasperated. It's a flimsy lie, there is water on Patrice's bed stand, but he is no child who has been caught past his bedtime and if James wants a fight Patrice is going to give it to him.

“Okay,” John says instead, tells him he is going back to bed.

The two of them on the Boston ice. His hand around Patrice's shoulder, the spoked B proud on their chest, heads thrown back in laughter. The old wooden frame is chipped in the corner, the sole remnant of an ancient two touch soccer game gone wrong. 

Brad. 

His name was Brad although people called him Marshy too and Patrice called him Kevin when he wanted to be annoying.

John stops where he is, halfway up the stairs, and turns around.

“He did hate it when you called him Kevin,” he says around a soft laugh. Patrice flinches - he didn't realize he said it out loud. He smiles anyway. _Call me Kevin one more time and I'm going to lick you_ , Brad threatens. Patrice wiggles his eyebrows. _Is that a promise?_

**Author's Note:**

> idk my grandma has alzheimer's and i was in a mood. 
> 
> come find me on tumblr @blindbatalex.
> 
> i love and appreciate all of your comments.


End file.
